Simon Toyne - The Key

Soon it would be back, flooding the mountain with its cleansing force and radiating through his body, restoring health to the pitiful thing he had become.

Behind him he heard the scuff of a shoe on the stone floor as the two red-cloaked guards waited by the great spindle of the lifting gear. He had played on their fears and appealed to their ambition by promising to elevate them to the ranks of the Sancti in exchange for their help.

Return the Sacrament, he had told them, and everything will be restored to the way it was.

The Citadel, the Sancti — and him.

Dick felt the automatic brakes engage and the carriage start to slow. Up ahead the faint glow of sodium light leaked into the tunnel from the embankment terminal.

Final destination.

He felt a sense of calm and contentment. Once the box was loaded on to the Ascension platform and he had rung the bell to raise it, his mission would be over.

It would be com-plete.

This was one of his favourite words, so perfect in its form and meaning. Even the act of saying it made the mouth perform a full workout of sounds and plosives leaving the lips stretched in a satisfying smile. It was how he had felt when he had first discovered the words of God in prison and filled the empty vessel of his old self.

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop and he stepped out on to the loading bay. It was the size of a double garage, with storage racks lining the walls and electric hand-carts parked to one side, plugged into the wall to charge overnight. The racks were all empty, everything having been distributed for the night. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the insect whirr of an electric motor as he took one of the smaller carts and steered it over to the carriage. He dragged the box on to it and headed across the platform towards the exit.

The cool night air hit him as he emerged from the loading shed and headed up a shallow ramp to the embankment. The Ascension platform was directly across from him, accessed by a wooden bridge. He made his way towards it, enjoying the solitude and sense of satisfaction that his work was nearly done.

He had just stepped on to the bridge when everything went wrong.

The first thing he heard was hurrying footsteps, scuffing over the dry flagstones towards him — three or four people by the sound of it. Instinctively he spun round, his hand reaching inside his jacket for his gun, then an intense white light blinded him.

‘James Harris, World News. What’s inside that box?’

He saw the edge of a camera lens beneath the bright light and the spongy end of a microphone thrust in his direction. He considered shooting out the light and taking his chances with whoever was behind it, but his mind caught up and made him stop. The camera was probably sending a feed to somewhere else or even broadcasting live.

He thrust his hand back in his jacket, but not before the cameraman had seen the gun and zoomed in on it for a second.

‘There is nothing in the box,’ he said. ‘You have no authority here. You should not be here.’

‘They have my permission.’ A new voice and the outline of a man, one arm in a sling, the other holding out a police badge.

Police and press. All wrong.

There was nothing for it but to abandon his mission and escape.

He took a step towards the camera, smiling broadly, his arms rising up in the beginnings of a gesture of surrender. The cameraman backed away, but not quite fast enough. Dick brought his arm down in a rapid swipe, knocking the camera to the floor. There was a shattering of glass as the top light broke and everything was plunged into darkness. Then he threw himself at the policeman.

Pain lanced through Arkadian’s arm as the man ran through him, knocking him backwards on to the flagstones. He twisted round — bringing fresh, tearing agony to his shoulder — and reached for his gun, but the hulking figure was already disappearing round the corner of the loading shed. He was gone. None of the others were going to pursue him. They were too preoccupied with the main focus of the exclusive story he had promised them.

The cameraman had picked up the camera and was zooming in on the lid while the reporter prised it open, giving a running commentary as he did so.

Arkadian struggled to his feet. He wanted to go after his attacker, but was in no physical state to run, so he drifted over to the box, hoping to God it contained good news.

The lid pulled away and clattered to the ground.

Liv was lying on her side, wrapped in blankets and bandages like a Halloween mummy. The reporter was asking her questions, but it was clear she was drugged. At least he hoped that was why none of the preceding racket had roused her. Arkadian reached in and pressed his fingers to her neck.

There was a pulse.

She was alive.

Dragan watched it all play out beneath him like a helpless God. As soon as the bright light flashed and the large figure knocked it out and fled he knew it was trouble.

He watched the others surround the box, the lid slide off it, and felt something surge within him when he saw the figure curled inside. He was drawn towards it and had to grip on to the cave wall to stop himself from tipping down into the gap. So close that he could see it, too far for it to do him any good. He felt like weeping, or raging, or killing something. But all he could do was watch as the group departed, taking the girl with them.

Arkadian held on to Liv all the way down the bumpy streets of the old town, his good arm wrapped round her like a father comforting his child, his bad arm singing with pain at every bump.

They were travelling in one of the ‘moon buggies’ used to ferry the old and infirm up the mountain. Right now he felt he qualified on both counts. The reporter was driving, while the cameraman scanned the streets with his lens like a soldier on point. Nobody spoke, aware that the giant man they had accosted could still be out there somewhere, hiding in the shadows, waiting to ambush his ambushers.

By the time they reached the bottom, Liv was starting to stir, shaken awake by the juddering descent. Arkadian punched the exit codes into the emergency hatch and smiled when the rising steel shutter revealed that the second part of the rescue plan was waiting.

The reporter saw it too. ‘What’s that ambulance doing here?’

‘I called for it. Wasn’t sure what state the hostage would be in. Pull over by the rear doors and I’ll have them check her out, make sure she’s OK before you get to talk to her.’

The reporter steered over to the parked ambulance and hit the brakes hard enough to telegraph his annoyance. The deal he had done with Arkadian gave him exclusivity on the story and now he could feel it slipping away.

The driver’s door of the ambulance opened and a skinny, pale man with shoulder-length black hair got out and moved towards them. He dropped to his knee and grabbed Liv’s wrist. ‘Pulse is weak,’ he said after a few beats. ‘BP is low.’ He lifted one of Liv’s eyelids and shone a bright penlight into it, switched eyes and did the same. ‘Pupils are constricted but responsive. Looks like some kind of barbiturate poisoning. I need to put her on oxygen and a drip and shift her to the hospital immediately so we can find out what they doped her with and start flushing it out.’

He threw open the doors and dragged out a retractable trolley, the legs springing open and clattering against the flagstones.

‘Give the man a hand,’ Arkadian said. ‘I would, but…’

‘Keep filming,’ the reporter barked at the cameraman before stepping forward to help lift Liv on to the trolley.

The long-haired medic strapped her down then manoeuvred the stretcher back to the ambulance, slotting it into place with a hefty shove.